Can You See Me Now
by Whyntir
Summary: 'Please don't notice. No one notice the blood on my hands. Please over look the crimson gloves that torment me. He's not there anymore, no one to ruin my life further.' WARNING: Yandere!Canada
1. Chapter One: Missing

**A/N: Alright, so those who read A House Divided, this isn't the exact plot bunny I was talking about, but this one is just as persistent, if not more so. I'll tell you what brought this little story into berth when we get there ^^**

* * *

"Where is that bloody git?" England demanded for the tenth time as the rest of the nations began to get bored. America had yet to show up to the meeting he was _supposed_ to be hosting at the UN building. Some of the nations had paired up to talk, play cards, or even tic-tac-toe on their notes. Yes, they were just that bored. They weren't worried though, Alfred usually showed up ten minutes to an hour and a half late if he was "busy" or had "forgotten something". Usually they both turned out as "Mc Donald's was overcrowded and some lazy bitch was working the counter".

"_Mon cher Angleterre,_" France sighed, "he'll be here soon enough. Sit, rest your feet, and come play a game of black jack." Arthur glanced at his watch; America still had an hour to show up, so he let it slide.

"America seems not to be showing up," Ivan commented after another hour and a half later. He was the first to voice the many growing concerns over where the missing nation could be, being gone fore two whole hours when a meeting was to be had.

Now it was England's turn to try and keep control, "Perhaps he slept in and is on his way now. Th-the git will be here soo- Russia, what the bloody hell are you doing?"

"Calling him," the ashen haired man commented as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Deftly, he pressed the speaker button as the phone rang and rang. Everyone held their breaths, the silence feeling ominous.

"_Hey! You've reach Alfred Fantabulous Jones. Obviously this is a recording so after the beep leave your name and I'll figure out what speed-dial you're on. England, if its you, Mc Donald's was a bitch and traffic was hell and I tot- BEEP."_

Russia's eyebrows furrowed as he hung up the phone; Alfred wasn't answering . . . that was not a good sign. England worried his lip and France wringed his hands out under the table. The most powerful country in the world . . . was missing? That was unheard of! Alfred was loud, obnoxious, he owned the room he entered, and was an overall American, so how could you lose the loud-mouthed country?

The door opened and everyone turned in unison expecting a damn good explanation. "America, where the bloody, fucking hell have you been!"

"I-I'm sorry," the double murmured softly, "I-It's me, Canada. America isn't here either?"

Francis frowned disappointedly at Arthur before standing up and comforting his dear sweet Mathieu. "_Non_, I am afraid not. Your brother probably forgot all about it."

"Perhaps," Mathieu nodded, hugging his bear tight.

'_Please don't notice. No one notice the blood on my hands. Please over look the crimson gloves that torment me. He's not there anymore, no one to ruin my life further. Please don't notice his blood; please don't notice his blood on my hands.'_

"Well, since he isn't here, I'll take over and call this meeting extended the dates. Everyone, return to your hotels and we'll pick up once America arrives," Germany announced before closing his own notebook.

"And wh-what if he doesn't?" Canada asked softly. No one heard him, or even noticed him for that matter, besides France who simply shrugged.

"Then we go home," the Frenchman guessed before collecting his things and leaving.

* * *

England sat in his room wondering where his ex-colony could have gone. Perhaps he was on a vacation? No, he probably forgot the entire meeting and would show up the next day, but rising doubts made his stomach churn. Canada had been late too, maybe the airports were having issues at the last minute and America had to drive there, that also explained why he didn't pick up the phone with the law of cell phone use on the road. It was an annoying thing, but Alfred thought it would keep his children safe, so whatever. He'd show up tomorrow, and at most two or so day. If he wasn't in the UN by then, they were going to go searching for his bloody arse.

* * *

"Was it right what I did?"

'_Why are you asking? Remember all the things he did to you?'_

"Well . . . yeah . . . but he was still-."

'_You were never there, only him. No one cared about you. You were worthless, a tag along. He never even made the effort to help you out and everything he did fell onto your shoulders.'_

"Yes . . . but-."

'_It can't be undone anyway. Just move on. What about that Englishman? He never cared about you either. He took the one person who cared for you away just to keep _Him_ safe. He never even bothered to remember your name.'_

"Must I?"

'_You must.'_

"Wh-what if I don't want to?"

'_You were late today~. They'll piece it together once they find his car, _He_ will anyway. No one else would even remotely notice you.'_

Silence prevailed for what seemed like eternity. "Alright."

'_Tomorrow.'_

"Tomorrow," he agreed. He sat in the white chair for a while. It was soft, much like Alfred's car seats. They had been white too, or maybe a beige color. He couldn't remember straight anymore, but he could remember one thing: They weren't that light, carefree color anymore.

* * *

_Now was it, his heart rate rose. "Wait a moment Alfred. Pull over; I need to talk to you."_

"_Can't it wait until we get there? We're going to be late as it is!" the American whined._

_He shook his head, "No, please Alfie~?"_

_Alfred groaned, like hell he could deny that adorable, pleading voice. He pulled over on the side of the road; a forest lay beyond the pavement, looking ominous in the dim light of early morning. Alfred had gotten the call that his passenger needed a ride since his car was in the shop so, despite the fact that he was supposed to be hosting the UN meeting which started at nine in the forsaken morning, he drove to Montreal to pick up his brother._

_They had passed over the boarder a while a go and were on the Eighty-seven heading south when Canada had pleaded for him to stop. He pulled over to the shoulder of the curb and placed the car into park. "What is it Mattie?" he asked curiously. He suddenly felt nervous from the way his brother wringed his hands in his lap and looked out the window._

"_M-may I ask you something?" he asked, sweat slicking his palms as his nerves frayed at the ends._

'Do it.'

"_Yeah, anything in the world."_

'Remember.'

"_Wi-will you . . ." His voice trailed off as Alfred leaned closer to the other North American country._

"_Will I what?"_

_Suddenly dead amethyst eyes looked back at him and a large smile was plastered on his brother's face, "Will you please die?"_

* * *

The seats weren't white anymore. Mathieu slipped his gloves off his hands, still red from lack of washing. The white chairs, or maybe beige, were now a brilliant scarlet red, just like Alfred fucking flag. That's right, he hated that flag. He hated those colors of red, white, and blue. They all needed to die for what they did to him. He had even burned that stupid American flag the day before after making his resolution. All of them would die; every . . . last . . . one.

* * *

England couldn't sleep at all the night before. He had an ominous feeling in his gut which only came about when something was so terribly wrong that he just knew. Nine-out-of-ten times it had something to do with Alfred. He stayed up late watching the horrible American shows and soap operas drinking tea to keep his nerves calm. At seven in the morning the next day, the news flickered on.

"_Breaking news! A Ford truck was found in Ash Craft Pond early this morning by an early morning fisher whose boat bumped into it. Currently the county's police are pulling the car from the water."_

Arthur sat frozen, the cup in his hand shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. The car being pulled out of the water was none other than Alfred's.

"_There seems to be something in the cab of the truck,"_ the unseen anchor woman said, drawing the Englishman's eyes to the front seats. There, just barely visible, was a dark outline behind the tinted window. It was undecipherable until the car was pulled onto dry land, the news helicopter circling to get a clear shot, and the fire department began cutting away at the door since it had been locked. Once the door came off, Arthur collapsed to the floor, his tea cup rolling away as the contents stained the hotel's clean rug.

Inside the cab of the truck sat Alfred F. Jones, his face indistinguishably gouged and hacked at until there was nothing left to identify him by. He was still belted into his seats which had been a pale blue color, now a dark crimson and waterlogged. The only way the officers ID-ed him was from the dog tags around his neck.

* * *

England hadn't been the only one watching the news. Mathieu watched in giddy anticipation as they revealed his handiwork. His brother's beautifully carved face. They would find the weapon inside, his fingerprints thoroughly removed of course. He had made sure someone would find it recently, but he could have never even hoped that it would come about so soon. It was thrilling.

Alfred F. Jones was dead, his face carved away. Now no one would mistake them for the same person. Alfred had no face anymore while he still wore him. He giggled, hugging his bear close. It wasn't alive anymore, no; the pathetic creature couldn't even remember him for a moment. Why would he want the thing to stay alive if it would constantly ask who he was? He killed it, stuffed it, and carried it around with him. A part of him regretted not having something to talk to anymore, but that bear was the epitome of everything he wanted to wipe out in the world.

Once he was done, nobody would be asking 'Who is Canada?' or beating him for his brother's stupidity, or mistaken him for that idiot. Oh, wait, he had killed him. That's right. He strangled him to death, watched as those brilliant orbs of light faded as he struggled futilely to get air in his lungs. Still, he didn't resist. He couldn't, he didn't even understand what was happening. If he had resisted, he might still be here.

He watched as the camera was hastily turned off by the television crew and live feed was cut off. He giggled again, a demonic little titter, as he felt the other's body go limp in his grasp again. He felt Alfred's body go cold and pale, his lips a shade of blue. Mathieu would have left him like that if he hadn't had that sudden burst of rage towards his face.

'_No one should have to share a face with the likes of him,'_ the voices told him, so he took a pen from the glove box an tore away the flesh, leaving the dead blue eyes for anyone who found him to see. He didn't share those eyes. He had his own. Then he stopped laughing. No, they weren't simply _his_ eyes. That Russian, that fucking Russian, had the same eyes; the same violet eyes that he had.

Mathieu stood angrily, in full rage, and threw the bear against the wall with all his might. He kicked the furniture, threw the chair he had been sitting on, toppling it over across the room. He didn't care how fucking early it was. And that Russian had the same colors too. That fucking red, white and blue! He would kill the Russian, pull his eyes out with his bare hands and stab through that demon heart he had! How funny, kill his brother and then his brother's boyfriend. He'd need to anyway. Ivan would figure it was him, somehow, someway. If not during the next hour wait they were going to have for Alfred. He wouldn't tell anyone about the news story and he doubted anyone else was awake to watch the breaking news.

He ran a hand quickly through his hair. First things first: get through the next few hours which may or may not turn into days and get Russia when he least expects it. England would have to wait for his turn. He grinned darkly, habitually putting the room back together; he would make sure they knew him.

"Can you see me now world? Can you see me now?"

* * *

**A/N: Yes, this plot bunny jumped into my mind from one picture I came across in an AMV of multilingual 'Savages' from Pocahontas by Disney. My brother and I saw the picture and paused the video, looked at each other and the first words out of my mouth were: "You know America ain't coming to thee next meeting." So I took that idea and ran with it to THIS horror fest. Death, gore, OOCness. Canada has officially snapped. Now the world is in trouble.**

**http : / / i954. photo bucket. com/ albums/ ae24/ wichtige/ Hetalia/ 9186137. jpg**


	2. Chapter Two: Eyes

**A/N: Okay Russia's ring tone is Zaschischatsya Ochkami and I came across it on Play list while writing the chapter and it was the best song I could think of that totally deserves to be on a phone! Hence, I put it on Russia's since mine is as old as hell and doesn't connect to a computer. . Anyway, look it up sometime and I have no doubt you will agree with me~ ^^**

* * *

The next day Arthur was the one missing from the meeting, as well as Alfred. The other countries were getting suspicious, from the increase of absences. As such, Ivan was becoming more and more anxious at his boyfriend's disappearance. He attempted to call again earlier in the morning and the phone was now off. Alfred _never_ turned off his phone. With that much known, something must have happened to the American for the situation to continue. Ivan wrung out his hands from the nerves; no one else knew that they were together besides his older sister Ukraine and Alfred's brother Mathieu. Actually it was a need-to-know basis, don't-ask-don't-tell sort of thing to keep the other nations from going into a panic at the thought of a joint Russian-American force. Now, he really didn't want to care about what others thought, but Alfred had been the one to decide it, so he would respect his wishes.

"Where could Arthur be?" Francis asked, getting worried as well, "I'll go check his room."

Mathieu was confused, he didn't kill England yet, had he? He had promised to do it today, but after Russia. Maybe he needed to think this through. Could he have killed him and not remember it? Sort of like sleepwalking; maybe. If he did, he didn't care. He simply shrugged it off; Russia would be next if all things went according to plan. Sadly, the Universe didn't seem to like him.

* * *

"Arthur?" Francis called through the door to the Englishman's room. He couldn't hear anything, which made his heart beat louder than it really should. He tried the door and found it locked. Worry eating away at his nerves, he pushed against the wood roughly but it wouldn't budge. Finally, he stepped back before running at the door, using his shoulder to bust it open. He cringed from the pain that shot through his bones. He wasn't as young as he used to be, that was for sure. It used to be that an oak door couldn't even stand in his way between him and his _Angleterre_. He looked around the room to find it empty, a television set hummed dimly in the room, the news playing.

"_This is footage from earlier this morning at Ash Craft Pond, New York. This is extremely graphic and viewer discretion is advised,"_ the pretty brunet anchor woman flashed off the screen to show an aerial view of the lake that he had known so long ago, a truck being pulled from the shallows of the water by police officers in the area. _"At five-thirty-seven this morning, a fisherman's boat bumped against this Ford Super Duty model. Police responded immediately and pulled the truck from the water to find that someone was still inside the cab of the truck."_

France's eyes widened and a hand covered his mouth. All of them knew Alfred's dark blue truck that the American had described as his _'All American Baby'_ when he first bought it. It even had the American flag sticker on the back window! And someone was in the cab! The footage continued; skipping through the twenty to thirty minutes it took to open the cab door to reveal America . . . or what was left of him. His face was nothing but hacked flesh and carnage. The footage that had been cut off earlier that morning was the zoom in on the victim's face. He could hear one of the people in the helicopter wretch and could even see a firefighter vomiting a little ways from the scene. The only thing left of the American country's beautiful face were his eyes, staring straight ahead, glazed over in death, and the only thing that sealed the envelope.

Francis immediately ran to the bathroom and wretched up his breakfast.

* * *

_Eto tvoya zemlay. Eto tvoya strana.  
Eto tvoya lyubov'. Eto tvoya Dusha.  
Eto tvoya luna. Eto tvoya zvezda.  
Eto tvoya noch'! Eto tvoya-"vsegda!"  
Eto moya igra. Tuchi po pravilam.  
Nebo na popolam. Solntse tebe otdam.  
Ya budu! Ya budu!  
zaschischatsya ochkami zaschischatsya ochkami _

Russia jumped in surprise as his phone went off. Expecting Alfred any moment now, but fearing the worse at the same time, he hastily cut off the song to answer the phone.

"_Allo?_" he answered, worrying the courner of his bottom lip.

"_Ivan,"_ a heavy voice responded, he could distinctly pick out the French accent.

"_Da?_ What is it Francis?"

"_It's Alfred."_ The Russian's blood froze solid in his veins, already expecting the next words. _"He isn't coming. He's . . . d-gone."_

The phone slipped from his grasp as he imagined what could have possibly happened to his lover. It couldn't be possible! Alfred was too strong for that, wasn't he? Alfred had demonstrated his superhuman strength so many times before to remind Ivan who really had the upper hand in the relationship. But if Alfred really was . . . gone, (He refused to use the word dead. Never! Alfred couldn't die!) it had to have been done by someone he knew. Someone he either trusted or never expected it from, or maybe both. With that said, it immediately ruled out humans. Humans couldn't kill them anyway, though they had tried many times. Also, Alfred never picked up hitchhikers ever since he saw that one horror film Texas Chainsaw Massacre which he had dragged Ivan to with him for their first date two years ago. Ivan thought back to their date. Alfred had been so terrified and clung onto him better than if they had Velcro holding them together. The memory that had always made him giggle now felt like a stab through his heart.

He blinked, coming out of his own thoughts to find himself crying and everyone watching him anxiously. He swallowed painfully, trying not to let his sobs be heard. "F-France found America . . . h-he's not coming."

"And why the fuck not!" Romano demanded, not reading the mood at all.

"Because he's dead!" England's vengeful voice announced from the doorway. Everyone turned to see the disheveled Englishman in the door with a very ill, weary-looking Francis.

'_No, not dead,'_ Ivan pleaded to himself, but he couldn't deny it, could he. He buried his face in his hands to hide the tears that slipped past his gloved fingers anyway. His entire frame wracked with tremors and Yao hesitantly placed a hand on his back and rubbed smooth circles into the jacket. Francis would have smiled had it not been for the circumstances. He had been right the entire time, there _was_ (or had been) chemistry between the two. Now, it became clear in the most painful way.

Mathieu sat quietly as he watched the largest of the countries crying. He felt a twinge in his chest. Not regret, like hell it was regret, but more of pleasure. He enjoyed watching as Russia broke down and suffered. He loved watching the hurt and agony. That was something new to him: pleasure from such sadistic means. But now everyone knew. He swore in French under his breath. He glared at England; he would have to go before the ashen haired Russian. He had ruined all his fun, that bastard!

"Then I guess we go home. There's nothing we can do about America now," Spain sighed. He stood to leave and was met with a gun in his face by Arthur.

"Like fucking hell any of you are leaving!" he hissed with bloodlust in his eyes, "All of you know humans can't kill nations. Not _one_ human anyway. It had to have been someone in this room As of right now, _everyone_ is a suspect."

There was silence for a moment before chaos erupted. Denials and accusations were hurled through the room, though no one could have an alibi, they were alone up until the meeting began. And deny as they might, they were only digging themselves in deeper. A gun shot rang out and everyone immediately silenced. "I already locked down this entire floor. None of you are getting out until this is settled," Arthur informed them. Now there was nothing they could do but wait for the villan t reveal himself . . . or another victim to be found.

* * *

Canada paced in his destroyed room in absolute rage. Even if no one noticed him, with the entire floor locked down he couldn't get out! Now he was stuck here until they found the killer or . . . he grinned maliciously. If they were all dead~. No one would count him since he was never on the lists of attendance and no one would remember him for their life. He giggled at the accidental pun. Once they were all dead, he'd tip off the security and they would drop the lockdown to investigate. It would be assumed that they all killed each other and he could continue about his way as the only living country in the world. He laughed demonically before exiting the room. He'd pay England a late-night visit.

* * *

Arthur had spent the remainder of the day crying his eyes out. He had loved America, like a son of course, and now that playful child who always brightened up his days was gone. Even if they would argue and fight a lot, it was mostly playful and never for malicious intent. Still, there were those times that they had really punched each other's buttons, but they always made up. Now that he thought about it, he had never properly apologized to Alfred for all the things that had happened between them. And though he still felt that Alfred had no right to declare independence, he had never told the blue eyed boy about how proud he was of him. No matter what happened in the world, Alfred somehow always managed to bounce back stronger than before. Just look at World War Two. He owed so much to the American . . . and now he would always be in debt.

"Arthur?" a timid voice asked behind him. He jumped and turned to see . . .what was his name again? Oh well. But he had trouble holding back the tears. He looked just like Alfred, that same round, adorable face. Sure their eyes were different, but they were obviously related.

"Oh, hello. I-I didn't hear you come in," he explained, wiping the tears from his eyes.

The other country frowned, though it looked very much like Alfred's childish pout, "You never did. You were always to busy with America to even bother with me. You never even made an effort to remember my name. And it's Canada by the way."

"Ah," he sighed, trying to sound into the conversation, "Right, I'll remember that Canada."

"It doesn't matter," Mathieu sighed, holding his bear close and looking at his feet. The room was dark so Arthur couldn't see the amethyst eyes take on that psychotic gleam that he been the last thing Alfred had seen as well.

Unknowing, England placed a hand on Canada's shoulder, "Why doesn't it matter?"

"Because."

"Because?"

His head lifted slowly and that plastic smile widened at the fear that suddenly pooled into those emerald eyes. He soaked in that look of sheer horror as he let the bear fall to the floor, revealing the knife he had hidden the entire time. Arthur wheeled back, trying to get some distance between him and the other country. "C-Canada! Mattie! What are you doing!"

"I hate that name!" he snarled, cradling the knife like it was his bear. Just now Arthur noticed the deadpan, glazed look in the bear's eyes. As a matter of fact, the bear stank. It stank with decay. It had been stuffed, but not properly. Its eyes had dark spots in them where bacteria ate away at the corpse's soft tissue.

"M-Mattie-."

"I said I hate that name! He always called me that! My name is Mathieu! Mathieu! Not this Mattie bull shit!" he swung the knife and cut a thin, but deep, wound across Arthur's face. It cut from his lower-cheek, across the bridge of his nose, and, barely missing his beautiful eyes, sliced across his temple. The Englishman cried out in pain and held his face as blood seeped into his hands and between his fingers. What had caused the usually mild and calm nation to become . . . become _this!_ It suddenly clicked in his brain.

"You did it?" he asked looking up to the Northern-most North American Country, "You killed Alfred?"

Mathieu giggled as though it had been the funniest joke he had ever heard in his life, "Yes, yes I did. Now we don't share a face anymore, do we? His is all torn up, isn't it? Nothing like mine."

"Why!" England shouted, tears rolling down his cheeks from the pain and revelation, stinging his open wounds. He grimaced and hissed as the salty water mixed with his injury.

"I'm sick of being ignored for his sake," Mattie growled, deftly stabbing the blade into the Englishman's hand. Another scream of pain, but when he opened his eyes, the Canadian was gone. He barely felt the wire around his throat before he was being dragged through his room by his neck. He clawed at the thin, metallic wire, trying to pry it from his pale neck. He was seeing spots. No, this couldn't be happening! He was going to suffocate to death by one of his own Colonies, specifically the one that had always been so calm and serene.

He heard a door shut somewhere, but not being able to locate the exact location due to his lack of air to his brain. Suddenly he hit said door, the wire running under it. Mathieu wasn't going to wait for him to suffocate. He felt the pressure around his neck increase and the taste of blood bubbling in his mouth. His arteries were being crushed along with his bronchial tube! His body reacted on its own, despite how he willed himself to stay awake for his torture. He blacked out.

Mathieu pulled one, final time as hard as he could, his feet on the door to give him added support. With one final pull, he heard a wet squelching noise from the other side and the rope went loose in his hands. He fell backwards on his ass as the rope followed, the noose now on his side of the door, ensanguine. It looked so beautiful in that shade of red. He sighed and stood up, leaving the cord to be found by the next person looking for England, though he could guess who it would be. Quickly, he wiped off his shoe prints from the door and left the room.

* * *

"_Angleterre?_" Francis called, worried. He wanted to comfort his dear England, but he could find him in the main room. He headed towards the bedroom when he saw the disturbed carpeting. It had that look of something being dragged across . . . or someone. Feeling the tightening in his chest, he followed the trail. Blood stains lined the way until he saw England's shoe around the courner. He looked so still, France wanted to walk away, not look at what he was sure he would find, the smell of blood heavy in his nostrils. But that would prove he never really loved the Englishman. Taking a breath he peeked around the courner before holding a hand to his mouth and attempting to run to the bathroom blindly. He only made it three feet away before spewing his stomach onto the ground.

England lay slumped against the bloody door, his head in his lap staring blindly ahead.

* * *

**A/N: Review please?**


	3. Chapter Three: Voices

**A/N: Ch. 3 and 28 more days to my B-day! Since it is Dec. this will be my last update until I get two chapters of my Code Geass fic up, not including the prologue. Sorry.**

* * *

Silence prevailed over the entire meeting room. No one knew what to say. Could they leave now that England was gone? Well, perhaps, but now no one wanted to leave or even suggest that route lest they be pinned as the killer. Of course the murderer would want to leave as soon as the opposition was gone, but with everyone on high alert there was no way to safely do so. All the countries sat far spaced, none wanting to risk settling beside the guilty party. Questions boiled under the surface however. Was it only one murderer? What continent did they reside on? Was it male or female? Canada giggled quietly to himself as he saw the stress in each country's face. He was thoroughly safe.

Unlike America, he was thinner, smaller. One reason no one truly sought to pay attention to him. He didn't have that overly masculine build of his brother, but by no means was it feminine: a perfect settling of androgynous shape and size. And, as though to mock the others even more, he was the absolute last person anyone would look at. Whoever was last had to go faster than the others. He liked the 'Biding Time' game, but he couldn't pull that off with someone like Russia or France who noticed him at odd intervals. His heart pretty much stopped. He had never planned on killing Francis, at least not intentionally. But if he were to kill all others besides Francis, he would know. But that was like killing his father! His eyes widened in fear, he couldn't let him be last.

_He knows it's you. He knows it._

No, that couldn't be right! How could he known? He had been so careful, so precise! He began chewing his nails, hugging himself since his bear stank too much to bring out of the room. He glanced wildly in the Frenchman's direction. Feeling eyes on him, Francis looked up and met Mathieu's gaze with a forlorn expression, feeling for the Canadian, as he looked wrought with anxiety. To the Canadian, however, it looked all knowing.

* * *

Back in his room, Mathieu paced, stressed to his limit, the only one watching was the little white bear that now only had one black, stinking eye left to see with. Canada wrought his hands together as they covered in sweat. Maybe Francis did know. The more he thought about it, the more it became truth. It wasn't 'maybe he did know', it was 'he knows it's you'. It wasn't 'how did he know', it was 'how to get rid of him'. His logic twisted and writhed and denaturing until it was unusable, not knowing where it was going itself. Its presence gone with the loss of its purpose: that being rational thought.

He looked at the digital clock at the bedside table, it leered angry red characters that made hardly any sense to him. Time meant nothing to him; it should mean nothing to the rest of them. They were immortal after all. He snickered, despite himself, at the inside joke. Oh time, time, there was never enough time. Even for those impervious to it.

The bed was untouched. He hadn't slept since the day he killed America. He had tried, oh he had tried, but the other would talk to him. Now England would be there, harassing him as his brother did. Even as he closed his eyes in a blink, he could see them waiting for him.

They weren't angry like he thought they'd be, but they pestered him for answers. Alfred always looked ready to cry, tears at the courners of his eyes, just like as he held loosely to Mathieu's wrists while his life was choked out of him. Wait . . . he had been crying? Canada paused in his steps. He couldn't recall tears before; actually it looked as though Alfred had been trying to laugh at him, coughing and hacking against his grasp. It had infuriated him, but now, as he reluctantly closed his eyes to get a better picture, he looked frightened and confused. Why would he be confused? He should know why he was killed! He should know! Mathieu pulled at his hair, a scream on his lips that refused to leave. He had to get rid of him, he just had to.

* * *

Francis sat in his room, wondering if he should go see Canada, he looked so distressed. And how could he blame his fragile Mathieu? His brother and second father were dead, never to be brought back. The boy might be in his room now, grieving silently and alone as was his nature to be. Perhaps he would welcome another's company? Francis was about to allow himself to leave his room when a shy timid knock sounded on his door. He knew it was Mathieu, he just knew. Either way, he had a look of pleasant surprise on his face as he opened the room's door.

"Mathieu, how are you?" he asked serenely as he held the door open wider for the other to enter. He noticed the Polar Bear Kurojirou was missing. Actually, he had been missing for the past day if he was right. He could see the bloodshot eyes, probably from crying, not knowing of the other's lasting insomnia.

"I have been better," he allowed. It was honest. He swore he'd be honest to France before he was gone. That would be best, right? Maybe he wouldn't torment the Canadian as the others have.

Francis nodded, walking to the kitchen of his room to make something to eat since it was almost dinnertime. "Is it your brother? Don't worry Mathieu; I'm sure you'll be safe. You are so quiet that even I lose you sometimes."

_'It's because he doesn't care.'_

Was that true? He looked to France who had his back to him while he cut up some vegetables for whatever dish he was making. His back is turned; he didn't care. If he did care, he would comfort him, not turn his back to him and let him disappear. Francis only remembered him half the time.

_'Then he only needs half that brain, right?'_

A large knife in his hand as he stepped closer, as it was Francis made no notion of even recalling his presence. The smile grew as the voices whispered in his mind. He would kill him; he would spill his brains all over the spotless kitchen. Mathieu reached forward slowly, France was innocently ignorant of the immediate danger he was in. Canada took the blond locks in his hand; the corn silk locks caressed his twitching fingers as they yearned to wrench those sunshine locks from the scalp.

Francis felt the fingers gently in his hair. His back stiffened with an instinctual pang of fear. "Mathi-?" his voice was cut off by the large chef's knife piercing through the skulls' thinner walls of the temples. Blood covered Canada's face as the body stood stiff, the Country side of the man fighting for life. He released the handle and watched in strange fascination. This had always interested him. The way his brother's body had seized as he gripped the life out of him. It felt so weird in his hands, as though a power entered into him. The same had happened with England through the wire, making him stronger, unstable. Now France, he felt the nationality writhe in agony before leaving the empty body. He felt his pulse speed up and quicken. Francis slumped to the floor in a mess of blood and flesh. Still, he wasn't done. The voices told him so. He took the knife and wrenched it up through the bones of the skull, blood spraying over the room, over his clothes, into his eyes. The world was dyed red.

"Brother France?" a small voice called behind him, "It's Italy."

Mathieu froze. There was no way he could weasel out of this, unless Italy didn't notice him at all. The young male stepped into the room and gasped, his large brown eyes growing wider at the horror that met his eyes. Then they trailed up to Canada. The North American country gasped. They could see each other. Someone could see him. Was this the only way? Kill someone and be doused in his or her blood? _That_ was how he was to be noticed? Rage filled his violet eyes and Feliciano could see the fire.

"Don't hurt me!" he screamed terrified for his life. Mathieu swore in French, grabbed the knife on the counter, and ran after the boy; his smile grew. This was so thrilling; the chase was easily the best part. He felt the adrenaline pumping like clots through his veins as he caught up to the Italian as he neared the door. He lunged and tackled the brunet to the floor, covering the smaller country in the blood of the other. His eyes were full of tears that freely traveled down his face, "P-please don't hurt me! I-I won't tell anyone! I promise, I swear! No one will know! I won't tell them!"

'_He's a liar. Kill him. Kill him. He stole France's love from you. It's his fault Francis had to die.'_

"No," he whispered darkly, "You're right, you won't tell anyone."

* * *

Ludwig paced his room worried. Feliciano went to go bring France to this secret meeting, but he hadn't returned in over twenty minutes. Russia was the one who was hosting it, chosing Ludwig's room for untold reasons. He promised he'd explain himself once everyone was present. The clocked ticked away in time with Ludwig's steps, fraying the Russian's nerves even more. His hands fuddled with his scarf, running the soft fibers between his fingers.

Ludwig glanced in his direction, "He'll be here soon," he promised.

"You said those same words twelve minutes ago." Ivan was getting nervous as well, though his voice remained level. They waited a few moments more before the Russian Nation-tan stood, "I'm going to go find them."

"Then I'm coming with you!" Ludwig announced quickly, racing after the other as they headed out the door. The trip down the hall seemed longer than a hundred years, both having a feeling that they knew what was on the other side, but keeping silent about their thoughts. Finally they reached France's room, the door was cracked open. His pent up anxiety broke loose as Ludwig threw the door open. Nothing was in the first room besides disturbed carpeting, evidence someone or something was dragged across. Germany would even pray that it had been Francis being his usual Horn Dog self and had dragged the Italian to the bedroom, which was exactly where the trail led.

"The kitchen light is on. I'll check there and you go to the bedroom," Ivan decided and, without waiting for an answer, left the blond to do his job.

Ludwig followed the trail; it didn't seem like the person being dragged put up a great deal of resistance. As a matter of fact, it looked like they were as stiff as a log. He came upon the door and his mind told him to open it. His hand hovered over the doorknob longer because of what he might find behind it. He heard nothing from the other side, deepening his feeling of dread.

'_No matter what, you need to open that door,'_ he told himself sternly. He nodded an affirmative and grasped the handle. He barely even registered the tremors coursing through his frame. He bit down on the inside of his lip before throwing the door open.

* * *

Ivan looked into the kitchen and the scene was fairly straight forward. On the ground lay France, blood gushing from the wound him his head . . . or what was left of his head. Apparently the culprit created an entry wound through the temple, killing on impact, and wrenched the knife through the nation's skull, cleaving it in half horizontally. Brain matter spilled out onto the floor and his stomach flopped. He hadn't seen this much gore for the longest time.

"Just as I guessed," the Russian murmured, "You were next." He left the room, holding in his stomach unlike the others. He was used to blood, used to the smell, the stain; death had always been a close companion of his. He left the room to enter the bedroom where Germany had gone. He padded open the mostly closed door to find Ludwig sitting on the bed, Feliciano's had in his lap. The Northern half of the country was dead; his eyes wide open in terror and pain, a Rat-Smile* cutting through the soft tissue that made up the courners of his mouth. That wouldn't be enough to kill him, so his neck was sliced open, crimson soaking the white silk sheets.

He knew who did it. He knew.

* * *

Mathieu giggled as he danced about his room. He was covered head to toe in blood, a grin upon his face. He had nothing to worry about now. No one knew it was him who killed everyone. Francis was the only one, so the voices said, and he trusted the voices. Now they congratulated him heartily. No one would guess.

"_Don't count on that."_

Canada stilled immediately. Who said that? He looked about himself in a panic. Who was there watching him!

"_He'll know. He noticed you just as often as Francis, even more so after he and I started dating."_

Alfred? He could hear his voice clear as day. He began to shrink as the voices began belittling him. Alfred always ruined everything in his life, and even after death he was just as meddlesome! But he knew who he spoke of, the question was now, who would come between them this time.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed~! Please review.**

*** "Rat-Smile": It is a special cut that was used often in the 1920s of America, made famous by Al Capone. It is where a blade is used to cut through the soft tissues of the mouth at the courners. It wasn't a kill tactic, but it hurt like hell and it was a psychological torture to those who watched. It is called the Rat-Smile because it was usually given top those who dealt with other gangs at the time and ratted out on Capone.**


	4. Chapter Four: Playtime

**A/N: Sensitive ideology warning. Please Review.**

* * *

Ludwig fought as hard as he could, but as he looked into the terrified brown eyes that he had looked into lovingly for years, he felt himself losing. It only became official when he saw the victorious tears landing on the cold flesh of the other country. Why did Italy have to die? Dear, sweet, innocent Feli, he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He pulled the boy closer, burying his face in the soft brown locks.

"I know who did this," Russia's voice suddenly cut in. Ludwig froze where he was, but the other knew he was listening, "You cannot tell anyone you know, though. This has to be small."

The blond looked up, the tears still gleaming in his eyes, but hatred also burning in them, "And when did you figure this out, may I ask?"

"Before Francis was killed. I noticed him during the meeting watching Francis; he looked scared, like he suspected France to know something."

"And why didn't you tell anybody!" the German snapped, "If you told France he was being targeted or told me who it was before we sent Italy off, we could have stopped him!"

Ivan sighed, "That was my own fault. I thought, seeing how petrified he looked, perhaps he wouldn't attack so soon. Bide his time until he felt safer. But that was what I would have told the three of you. I underestimated him however."

"Thank you for that," the German scoffed aggressively, "Thank you so much for looking out for us!" His tears still flowed freely, and Russia was not impervious to the guilt that stabbed into him. Yes, it was a mistake, but there was nothing to do now. Germany knew he didn't have a right to be _this_ upset. Ivan hadn't known what would happen, and he had lost Alfred at the beginning of this. He lay Feliciano down reluctantly, closing the nation's eyes with his fingertips. He kissed Italy's forehead gently before looking up to Russia, "So who is it?"

* * *

Weeks turned into months as each country who got to close to the truth (or so he thought) was massacred. Canada giggled violently as he crossed off Japan on his world map. He had so much fun with this game. His bear sat on the chair behind him, its fur falling out and the skin eaten away. He could see the maggots feasting on the flesh that was now a near black color. It stank horribly, but he had grown accustomed to the smell, being exposed to its gradual increase. Some seemed to have disappeared. He frowned at the 'X'-less Germany and Russia. Why were they still alive?

'_Last two. They know it wasn't them.'_

His blood ran cold and he gasped, taking his bear into his arms and hugging it close. His clothing was unwashed and his hair was disgusting, so holding the decaying bear did little to worsen his already horrible appearance. He stared at the map, but he could only see those he had killed. When had it grown so much? He heart pounded so hard, he swore it would tear a hole through his chest and spring forth.

"_I told you he knew,"_ Alfred gloated, punching the air childishly as he cheered. Was he cheering because he was right? Was it because Ivan was still alive due to his expertise of avoiding the North American country? Or was it because he wanted to fool Canada into thinking Ivan knew?

"Liar," he hissed darkly at his brother who seemed to take no notice of him.

Francis stepped forward, _"You killed me for naught Mathieu. I had no clue it was you."_

"Liar."

"_Mathieu, lad, you need to listen to reason. Why would you do this? We never hurt you,"_ England argued calmly, as though talking to a small child holding a rifle.

Mathieu swiped at them, but his hand just passed through air, "You wouldn't understand! How would you feel to do so much, and all the credit went elsewhere! You'd get fed up like me! It's your faults! All of you! I hate you! I hate you all!"

"_Well,"_ Alfred sighed, _"I'm glad I'm not you, for once. Germany and Russia have had better relations as of late, but maybe you're too delusional to recognize that. They'll trust each other, which leaves _YOU_ odd one out."_

He froze again, letting these words sink in. His brother was right. The two nations had conversed often during this entire ordeal, or more specifically, after Italy died. He began biting his nails, worrying deeply as he turned away from the crowd of people.

"_Ve. Russia wanted to talk with Germany, France and I. I never found out why,"_ Italy muttered. Suddenly an uncountable number of hands covered his mouth before he could blurt out anymore information that could aid Canada in his bloodthirsty quest.

Mathieu paused. So the Russian did know about him, and he most likely told Germany after they found Francis and Feliciano dead. He worried the inside of his bottom lip as he thought on how to proceed. Germany would need to go as well, as soon as possible. Still, it appeared that Russia was the bigger threat. Still, they both knew it was him. "Fuck," he cursed aloud, "I'll go for Russia then."

'_He still has your eyes,'_ the voices told him. He nodded. He still needed to get his eyes from that ice bastard. Tomorrow, he needed it tomorrow. Then, immediately after, he'd kill Germany, before that Nazi figured out what was happening.

* * *

He dreamed of dying. Of being dead and buried, but alive all the same. He dreamed of blood and pain, though he couldn't tell if it was physically induced of simply a psychological state.

"_Germany!"_ that haunting voice called to him, threatening to tear out his heart with the memories that followed it.

_They stood in a dark room, or was it a room? He could see the Italian perfectly, so it wasn't exactly dark, but everything around them was a pitch black. Ludwig wanted to hug him close, to swear never to leave him again, but there was an invisible wall separating them. It separated the living and the dead, but it was such a thin wall, like glass._

"_Germany, Canada is planning on killing you tomorrow. I don't know how, or when, but he swore that it would be tomorrow. You and Russia are in grave danger!"_

"_Should we not tell Russia then?"_

"_Alfred went to warn him. Please be careful Ludwig," Feliciano pleaded, his hands pressed roughly against the glass._

_The German placed his hands over the smaller ones and leaned against the glass, "I will. Italy?"_

"_Ve? What is it?"_

"_I lov-."_

* * *

Mathieu stalked down the halls, heading for Ivan's room. This would end today. It would finally end today. He couldn't help the grin that split his face with glee. He would be the only one, and everyone would notice him. He had showered the night before, so he was spotlessly clean, besides the fact that he carried his decaying bear with him, which fouled the air horribly.

* * *

Ivan checked the chamber of his Mosin Nagant M1895 revolver to ensure he was well armed. He didn't want to hurt Alfred's brother, especially of how similar they looked. He would feel as though he was killing _America_. It was one thing he would never do. Still . . .

He snapped the chamber closed with one deft motion. It was up to him to be strong now; him and Germany. This was what they had hoped for. They kept their distance and Canada had not paid them mind. Now it was time to end this, be it in Mathieu's blood or their own.

* * *

Ludwig blinked awake. That was the strangest dream he had since Feliciano's death. He suddenly realized he woke up before he had a chance to confess in his dreams. He felt tears prick his eyes. That's right; he had never told Italy how he felt about him. It was, truly, the worse feeling he could feel: Guilt. It haunted him after the Second World War, it haunted him now.

Thankfully, his cell phone's obnoxious ring brought him mind out of the dark clouds his thoughts stirred. It was a text message. He opened the email and read over the plan that Ivan had promised to him. This was the day. Finally.

* * *

'_What of Germany?'_ the Voices asked as he stalked closer and closer to the Russian's room.

"I'll get him afterwards."

'_The two have been close lately. They may be planning an ambush right this minute. Why don't you do something unexpected? Leave the trophy for last.'_

Mathieu's footsteps halted, echoing off of the empty halls. Leave Russia for even _later_? Had the voices finally gone mad?

'_They both know. You should kill Germany first, and then retrieve your eyes. They _ARE_ yours, are they not? Deal with the German quickly. A gunshot to his head will be of little wasted time. Besides, the real prize is those eyes. The eyes he stole from you.'_

They did have a point, "So what you're saying is . . ."

They giggled mischievously, _'What use is your trophy if you're killed after ripping them from his sockets? Kill the Nazi, and then claim your prize. And with Germany gone, you can take your time. Have your fun.'_

Fun? He gasped as he thought back to when the last time was that he hadn't been rushing to dispose of the intruding country. That was with Italy, since then Germany and Russia had been right on his heels. Mathieu remembered when he killed China. Russia had burst through the door with so little a warning; he just barely slipped into the closet before he could see. Ivan had been armed, so they had been playing a game all along; a game of Cat and Mouse, switching between roles at the drop of a hat. Now that he thought about it, he wanted to have that thrill again. He wanted to spend time torturing the Russia. His grin split wider. Yes, Germany first.

* * *

Ludwig prepared to face Canada after the North American country passed around the courner, but as time drew on, he was beginning to get antsy. This was supposed to work, this was supposed to be his moment of revenge. Mathieu was to head towards Russia's room and Germany would intercept him on his way to his target. As it was, it had been over a half hour and still no sign of the mentally unstable nation.

"Fuck it all," he muttered, and pushed through the door of the room he had been hiding in. He'd take the fight to Canada then.

He ran down the halls, careful to watch around the courners incase Mathieu was finally going to arrive. Germany made it all the way to the other's room with no hassle. As he reached for the door knob, he questioned why it had been so easy. Was Canada waiting for him on the other side? He gathered his wits about him. It was now, or never. He gripped the knob tightly before flinging it open and rolling in Special Forces style. He held his P38K up, ready to fire at a moments notice.

The dark room was empty, save for the decaying bear in the center of the area, watching him with its empty sockets.

* * *

He made his way back to the hallway, almost recklessly. Had Canada planned for him to leave his post and attack Russia while he was away? While he knew Ivan could defend himself if push came to shove, he had still placed a responsibility on Germany, and that was something Ludwig did not take lightly. He was the primary form of defense. Finally, what seemed longer than his run from the position, he returned to his hall. He dialed Russia's number and clipped on his hands-free device, so as to scour every part of the hall, in case Mathieu was hiding somewhere.

"_What is it Germany?"_ Russia answered, he sounded tense as though not expecting Germany to be the one calling.

Ludwig sighed in relief, "I was worried he had gotten to you. I- . . . I left my position temporarily. It appears he still has not shown up. I checked his room, he isn't there either. Now we got a lunatic on the loose and we have no idea where he is."

There was a slight pause as the Russian thought on the other end, _"Is it possible that he guessed? Or did he see you?"_

"I don't know. I'm damn sure he didn't see me, but that's from what _I_ know and the direction I was facing. I didn't bother looking behind me since his room was in the far opposite direction." He stepped back into the empty room before the hairs on the back of his neck and arms pricked. He could feel someone else in the room. "Wait," he whispered, "I think he's here."

"_Germany, if he is there, do not engage him! Get out of the room as fast as you can! He knows what we're up to if he's there! I repeat, do NOT engage him"_

Ludwig wanted to argue, but he knew Ivan was right. He had stepped farther into the room, but now he was backing towards the door. He could run to Russia and they could bunker down in there. Canada wouldn't bother trying. If he did . . . well, that was just plain suicidal. They had been alive far longer and their aim would not miss.

He heard a gun cock behind him. He jumped at turned around to be faced with a psychotic Mathieu, holding an M-93. The Canadian smiled broadly, widening every second as his finger squeezed the trigger inch by inch. Canada _had_ known and baited him into leaving his post only to be waiting for him when he came back.

"Germany, Germany, Germany," Mathieu tisked, "You fell into that one a little too easy. Toss the guna and drop onto your knees. Hands behind your head."

"_Germany? Ludwig! What's happening!"_ Russia's voice demanded through the headset as the German complied to the other's demands. Canada merely grinned at the jumbled, yet anxious, words that spouted out of the earpiece. He motioned for Germany to inform him of the situation.

Ludwig felt unsure about this. If it was okay with the lunatic, then it couldn't be good. Still, he felt as though he should warn the other. "I'm at gun point currently. He was on to us."

"_I'll be there shortly. Try to stall him."_ And the phone was silenced.

"Well?" Canada asked gently, "What did he say?"

"He's going to kill you."

Mathieu laughed heartily, "No one can kill me Germany, have you not realized that? I may not be as strong as my asinine brother, or as quick witted as England, or even sly enough to talk my way out like France. But I'm smart in that I can even fool you with the most simple of tricks. I'm sure Russia is on his way now, right? Too bad you won't be alive to greet him with me."

Germany opened his mouth to respond, but the flash of the other's gun kept his words in his throat. He didn't feel the pain, he just knew that one minute he was staring at the man, the next . . . he didn't know. As a matter of fact, he was conscious of nothing, even thought. It was like falling asleep without any dreams and waking up the next day feeling as though you closed your eyes not five minutes ago. The only difference was that this feeling would be eternal. Canada cackled giddily. Now it was him, alone with his trophy. He wanted to dance, but he knew the other would be there any second. Still, he allowed himself to punch the air in glee. This was finally it!

* * *

Ivan ran down the halls, worry gnawing at his stomach. He had heard the gunshot from three walkways down, but he didn't know who fired first. He hadn't heard anything of what Canada said. It all came out jumbled and utterly hopeless to decipher. He finally reached his destination and ran into the designated room that they had agreed on. Ironically it had been America's personal quarters. The thoughts pained him, but he shoved them aside. He slammed open the door, calling out the other's name, but fell silent when he saw the scene.

Germany lay limp on the ground, his blue eyes rolled up into his skull and blood polling freely from the wound between his eyes. Mathieu was a much better shot than they had estimated. He heard a noise off to his right and wheeled around, only to be hit with the butt of a handgun so hard that he fell to the floor, his world dimming. He could just make out the laughter before everything left him.

Now was playtime.


	5. Chapter Five: Blood

_Alfred and Ivan sat together in a coffee shop, a sort of compromise between the two's personal favorite restaurants. Russia preferred tea houses that were quiet and clean, where as America like those disgusting and loud fast food joints. The coffee house was the only median they could come up with. It was a stylish black building with white accents. Currently, they sat outside on the patio, sipping their drinks. It had been an impromptu affair of Alfred's (surprise, surprise) and they really didn't know what to talk about. It was 2000, and they had had little interaction as nations other than for the meetings, and even then it was extremely impersonal._

"_Hey, Ivan?" America asked, placing down his cappuccino onto the table._

_Amethyst eyes glanced up to him, "Yes Alfred?"_

"_I- . . ." What did he want to say? Like hell he knew. There was still tension, no way around it. A constant buzz in the air signaled as much. But what could he say to lessen it? It was becoming a tangible wall between them and it wouldn't just disappear. "W-we're cool now, right?"_

"_I believe so Alfred. You got what you wanted, did you not? I am no longer a Soviet, so I do not see why we would continue our petty arguments."_

_Riiight, petty. "Listen, like you said, your government has done a one-eighty, so maybe we can get along better now? Maybe we can meet up like this more often, get to know each other better?"_

_What happened next startled the younger country more than anything. A smile spread gracefully across as he sipped his black coffee. He placed the cup down on the table and leaned in closer with his hands propping up his head, "Alfred, are you asking me out on a date?" The European's head tilted slightly as a blush spread across Alfred's cheeks._

"_W-well . . . I-I . . . Y-you know-." He was cut off as Ivan held up his hand with an overly amused smile and his eyes closed in mirth._

_He revealed his violet eyes with a playful light dancing in them, "I would enjoy that greatly."_

* * *

It was dark when he awoke. He was lying on a table, his arms chained above his head and his legs were bound, effectively limiting any movement. What unnerved him further was his lack of clothing. He lay in the dark, naked, and unable to move. It was cold in the room, which is what he blamed the shiver that ran down his spine and not the fear that twisted in his gut.

"Ivan," a familiar voice called out to him desperately.

His blood ran cold as he lifted his head, looking for the owner of the voice, "A-Alfred?"

"Ivan," the voice cooed again, ocean blue eyes and a round, childish face peered back at him innocently from the gloom.

Tears pricked his eyes, from what he didn't know however. "Alfred?" he whispered pitifully. Alfred alive? That was too good to be true. He turned away, letting his head fall back against the metal table. "You aren't Alfred."

"Awe," the voice changed and his captor stepped closer to him. Ivan's eyes had, by now, grown accustomed to the lighting. He could see Matthew clearly in the dim lighting, but instead of fear he felt anger. Why did he use Alfred? Why did that son of a bitch have to use the one he loved more than life? Mathieu tittered, "You looked like you were falling for it too. I just love how your eyes lit up with hope for the brief second before reality smothered out the flicker. You're too easy to read Russia, and it's too easy to get under your skin." His fingers danced along the pale skin teasingly as he spoke. He snickered at how reactive the Russian was. It was the drugs of course, they amplified his response to physical stimuli by ten fold. He could tell exactly where he liked to be touched and where he didn't all from how he involuntarily shifted closer into the touch or how he violently pulled away.

Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as his torso was being explored. He didn't want this, but nor had he wanted anything else. "Why use Alfred? Please, just let him rest in peace."

"And let my colored contacts go to waste? I don't think so," Canada laughed. He had never realized before how much physical pleasure he derived from tormenting his victims. Chasing Italy, though it was panic-induced, was riveting. Now he wasn't chasing his toy, he was _breaking_ it. And how it broke. With each tear that rolled over the bridge of Russia's nose, Mathieu could see the outer shell flaking off. Now the question was; how many shells did _this_ toy have?

He leaned forward and, with a gentle hand, he turned the Russian's head to face him. He attempted to pull back violently, but being against the table kept him in place. Mathieu chuckled. Ivan reacted worse than if he had gripped his chin with a bruising force. "Is that anyway to treat a _lover_,_ Vanya_?"

'_You're not my lover! You're not Alfred!'_ he thought, though the waver in his resolve ruined any consolidating effect he might have attempted. Despite how much Ivan repeated it, he couldn't deny the similarities in their features, and they were doubled by the contacts that changed the Canadian's eyes. They looked the same. No! No they didn't! Alfred was happier, warmer. The sun seemed to radiate off of him and his hair was darker, with much more color than his northern brother who seemed to be his mirror image, but washed out from the winters he was faced with.

Canada huffed, "Going to be unresponsive then, hm? Well, there is always _something_ that will react." Before Ivan could even look at him, he crushed their lips together, his fingernails dragging down his bare chest, causing the other to gasp. Mathieu thrust his tongue into the hot cavern and explored, the Russian beneath him twitching and whimpering. His lips twisted into a wicked grin. He would ruin every memory he had of the American. He would defile every moment they had together. Canada took his toy's bottom lip between his teeth and bit down hard enough to draw blood. Ivan yelped in pain, tears springing back into his eyes. Mathieu moaned. He loved the sound of pain. Loved how the body below him writhed in it and how he keened softly. Above all, however, he loved the taste of the copper blood running over his tongue as he lapped it up.

He pulled away reluctantly, drunk on the metallic fluids. A sliver of crimson trailed down the courner of his mouth and down his pale chin. Mathieu could see fear, pain, and other emotions cloud through those amethyst eyes. That's right, the eyes. He wanted those more than anything. Still, extracting them seemed to be something more for a finale. "Tell me, when my brother and you fucked, who was on top? Whenever you look into my eyes you seem so submissive. Is it possible that the largest country in the world actually took it in the ass by a mere child of a nation?" Ivan looked away shame-faced. He didn't want to hear this. Couldn't the bastard cut off his ears or something, anything to put him out of this nightmare?

Russia heard a sound behind him, though he tried to place it as far out of his mind as possible. Whatever the Canadian was planning, it wouldn't be good. His dread was backed up by the sharp pain that bit at his bare chest as a leather belt snapped on his skin, burning it an angry red. He swallowed his cry of pain as his back arched. He snapped his eyes shut, not wanting tears to give away the agony. It was more than just the physical castigation that pained him, it was the other's words, but even more so it was those eyes. Mathieu looked much like his brother; there was no denying that, for it was a matter of truth, and with his blue eyes instead of the usual violet, the emotional anguish was unbearable. But his Alfred wouldn't do this to him.

He dared to open his eyes again, only to see the venom, the hate that coiled and writhed in the depths of his eyes. If he focused on those eyes long enough, Mathieu _was_ Alfred. And instead of Mathieu beating him mercilessly as he cried out in pain, it was Alfred. He saw those eyes before; he could remember a time when those eyes were meant only for him; filled with hatred and utter loathing for his existence. The clocks had turned back to the Cold War where every interaction was a chore and every meeting was a complete fiasco. The more he thought back to those times, the less the pain was. Even when the fall of the make-shift whip broke skin, he didn't cry out, but nor did he look away from those eyes. His heart was numb; he didn't know what he felt, or what he should have felt. All he knew was that he was in no position to react. All he could do was let it happen.

Canada chuckled under his breath as he watched the other break beneath him. With how intently he stared into his eyes, Mathieu could have sworn he saw a scared child in those eyes. He knew those eyes; he had looked into them for years now! Every fucking incident that Alfred got himself into, _he_ had to go in and be the bastard's back up. In Vietnam, Korea, he supported that ass all through the Cold War and beyond! What did he get in return? Nothing. An off-handed _"Thanks Mattie"_ but no actual recognition, and he lived every day of his life wondering if he'd be remembered the next day or forgotten like an over-used toy. It scared him, and every night he would look into those same violet eyes that gazed back at him now.

Anger gripped his chest as he riddled the pale canvass of a body with red welts and splotches of blood. He laughed, and enjoyed how the other winced at it as though it physically harmed him. "You were his little fuck toy huh? I pity you, being even worse off than me. He used me, no doubt about that, but he probably took you because of the power-play. Look at the largest country in the world, the one who defeated Napoleon, the one who battled Germany alone in two World Wars, the one who took America head on in a war that lasted near a half-century. Look at how submissive he is, how frightened he is under his sworn enemy. Once that got old, no doubt he would have left you, your heart empty and your trust shattered."

Though he didn't say anything, Ivan heard him. He heard the other voice, the _Not-Alfred_ voice, but he could only see Alfred. He yelped as he was flogged over a freshly opened wound. Still, what hurt even more was when his assailant stopped hitting him, his snow-white skin now a furious red in the dim gloom. His breathing was uneven as his flesh burned. The blue eyes turned away for a moment, turning to a something on the ground that he couldn't see. They returned, laughing mockingly and dancing in anticipation as to what awaited him. Did he _want_ to know what would happen?

Canada held a small knife in his sleeve, picked out carefully for this moment. He had been so anxious to finish what he came out to do; he wanted everything to go over smoothly, the voices urging him on. In his other hand he held a jar filled with formaldehyde. He jumped atop the table, straddling his chest and coercing a soft whimper after placing all his weight on the raw skin and placing the jar off to the side. Using his knees, he held Russia's head in place, despite how much he tried to break free. He laughed at the pitiful attempts, tempted to bite at the abused lips some more, wanting more than anything to taste that blood again.

"_You'll get another chance,"_ the voices assured him,_ "Retrieve your prize. You have won Mathieu."_

His grin broadened at the prospect. He won. _HE_ won. Not some other unappreciative oaf like his brother, or some stuck-up ass like England. _He_, Mathieu Williams, had won this beautiful game of life and death. He wanted to dance in absolute glee, but no. He hadn't won until he had carved those eyes out. He pulled out the knife, holding it delicately between his spider-thin fingers. He loved how those eyes widened in terror. Ivan knew, oh god did he know. He knew he had lost the game. Mathieu won and would claim his promised prize.

"I'm taking back my eyes Braginsky," he chortled, pulling up the other's left eyelid. He felt the one below him struggle feebly, but there was nowhere for him to go. "You'll be with Alfred soon enough, don't you worry. The two of you can be dead together, isn't that right Alfie?"

"Yes, I miss you so much Ivan," Mathieu continued, his vice changed into a perfect imitation of his brother's, "We'll be together forever."

"_Nyet_! Stop this!" Ivan cried out, his body wracked with spasms as his mental state returned. This was Mathieu, not Alfred. Alfred had loved him. They had loved each other. Mathieu frowned, oh how bad a move was that. He didn't want him so vocal, but then he'd scream louder. His grin returned before he started cutting away the flap of skin that protected the amethyst orbs. He tightened his grip on Russia's skull as he began writhing in anguish, his screams glass-shattering. Blood flowed freely over the eyes that rolled up into his skull. The eyelid felt alien in his fingers once it was completely unattached to the rest of the face. It was soft, slick, and the small hairs of the lashes tickled his skin. He hadn't even really noticed how quiet Ivan had become while he was preoccupied with his exploration.

"Are you quite done with your pathetic whining?" he snapped to the still body below him. He wasn't passed out, Russia was in shock. But not as much shock as he'd be in a moment. Mathieu placed the lid on the table beside him, they weren't what he wanted. He swiftly cut off the lower lid, only receiving a whimper in return. Now, now he would gain his first reward. He unscrewed the lid of the jar of formaldehyde in preparation for the fresh eye. Carefully, he placed three of his fingers against the edges of the socket, two on top and his thumb digging in from below. He didn't want to burst the organ, so he slowly applied pressure. Ivan began struggling again below him, but he didn't beg. How sad, the others had begged. Suddenly, his thumb slid into place inside the socket, using the natural fluids that coated the corneas. Ivan screamed as his back arched, he felt the invading digit inside the orifice. His other eye cried in agony as the other two fingers popped into place. Mathieu smiled a devil's grin, pulling carefully and wedging the orb out. Once it was free of the socket, he tugged harshly. Hanging in his blood coated hand was his eye, brain matter hanging from the back of it, dripping blood. He lapped at it greedily, savoring the copper taste that was mixed with the unique salty flavor of the eye. His taste buds tingled as he moaned in ecstasy.

Russia's body shivered as his brain rushed through the phases of shock, but it would take more than that to kill him. Shock was one thing they were immune to as nation. Still, as he watched Mathieu suckle his eye, it flipped his stomach. He felt so ill at the sight. Canada had lost his mind. If he found it hard to believe before, he was having no trouble with that now. The other had gone completely loony.

Mathieu dropped the eye into the yellow-tinted liquid with a soft _'plop'_. It sounded wonderful to his ears. He giggled uncontrollably as he sliced off the other two lids and repeated the procedure on the other eye. Oh god how he could bet drunk on the taste of the Russian's blood. No wonder why Alfred told him how much he loved to draw blood on his lover while they made love. He had a distinct taste to him that was more than just the leaden taste of the norm. After he placed the other eye into the formaldehyde, he screwed the lid shut and looked over his handiwork. Ivan struggled weakly as tears of scarlet stained his flushed skin. Oh how alluring it was, the beautiful color of blood. Canada leaned down and licked at it greedily, now regretting that he would have to kill his delicious toy.

Ivan whimpered again, now cast into a world of darkness without his eyes. He felt the tongue ravage his fluids and dip into his eye sockets, digging into the hole in his skeleton that nerves and brain matter had once passed through. He groaned in dull pain, becoming numb to the searing anguish. He wanted to die now; all he had to do was wait.

Mathieu could tell by how quiet his toy was that it was time to end their play date. The life had been pried out of the Russian heart; it was simply an empty shell. He took the knife up and weighed it before settling on killing his final victim a near-painless way. He _had_ gone through so much already. He deftly stabbed the blade through one of the sockets and into the brain. The entire frame spasmed once more, the extremities twitching as the signals were slashed through. He fiddled with the blade a little, mixing the matter inside the skull. He sat on the Russian until he heard his breathing hitch and fade into silence and the cold heart inside him stilled.

_He had won._


	6. Epilogue: I See You

**A/N: Thanks for reading this horrible gore-fest. I appreciate all the reviews and favourites and alerts that were given. Please tell me what you think, nothing helps an author more than feedback.**

* * *

After a half-year of the top floors of the UN building effectively locked down, the world leaders had had enough, they demanded intervention. Special Forces world wide arrived at the building to storm the inside while Leaders form all courners of the earth pointed fingers at each other. They all held a collective breath, however, as the raid went underway.

Every body was accounted for, decaying and stinking, bloated and covered with dry blood. It was an utter bloodbath that none had ever seen before. What no one noticed was the blonde with the wild violet eyes who simply walked out of the building, bear in hand and his suitcase with him, holding his possessions. Holding his eyes. Of course the people wouldn't see him, they never did. And that had been what he had been counting on. If they _did_ see him, no way would he have gotten out of there without a few bullets embedded in his chest. He drove back up to his homeland, the voices congratulating him on his achievement. He fell asleep that night in his Montreal home gazing into his beautiful eyes.

* * *

_It was black, they all watched him as he stood before them naked, baring the truth. They all stood together like a jury, determining what punishment he should be condemned to. Alfred frowned in pure rage as he held onto Ivan's hand with a grip stronger than Death's. He obviously didn't find Mathieu's fun as _innocent_. Canada stared back at them with a challenging look, though he felt a degree of fear grip his stomach. What could they do while they were encased on the other side of the wall? Nothing, that's what, right? Still, he stood with a haughty gaze. His composure wavered slightly as four more countries; older, taller countries clothed in ways he could not recall appeared at the head of the group. He had heard about them, though only in history books. They were the ancient nations. Rome, Greece, Egypt, and Germania were to be his judges, the others, the ones he killed were to be the biased jury._

"_Mathieu Williams, the representative of Canada, you are being accused and tried for the murder of the two hundred-fifty-six nations of the world without provocation and in cold blood. How do you plea?" Germania announced. His voice was strong, it echoed where no other voice would echo: Inside of Mathieu's heart._

_Not one to let the challenge pass him by, Canada swallowed his fear. No, he didn't murder them without reason or in cold blood. He exacted revenge! That was fair, it was always fair. That was how they worked as nations, an eye for an eye. He snickered at the joke, though the others did not seem to be amused. He gathered his remaining sanity, though it wasn't much, "I am guilty for their deaths, but the reasons behind it are not true. I had every right to kill them."_

"_Even your brother!" Alfred shouted, "The one who-!"_

"_The one who forgot me except when it was convent to him!" Mathieu barked back, "Now there is only me! No one and nothing to haunt me, to torment me! You're all dead, so stay dead!"_

_There were cries of outrage, shame, guilty, but Ivan's eyes watched Ivan's empty sockets. The Russian stayed quiet, even while the ancient four talked amongst themselves on his case. Ivan just watched him, holding his brother lovingly, the scarlet tears still staining his pale face. Oddly enough, though, he was clothed in his usual attire. How sad, he had a beautiful body; Alfred hadn't ever deserved a creature like him. Suddenly he parted his scarred lips and everything went quiet, all watching him expectantly._

"_You're wrong Mathieu. You aren't alone over there. There is one other." His eyebrows knit together, what was Ivan talking about? "You missed Matvey."_

_Matvey? Mattie? Who-? He turned and there, standing beside him, was a frightened looking young man hugging his bear Kumoshiki or something along those lines. They stared back at each other, grey-violet eyes matching in perfection._

"_I think that Mathieu should answer to Matvey. He can't very well kill _him_, now can he?" Ivan smiled. Almost immediately, everyone agreed to the verdict. He looked at them in disbelief. They would leave him to answer to this _wimp_! He glared at Ivan whose smile widened. He planned something, but Mathieu had one more problem to deal with. He glared at the Canadian who shrunk back fearfully. The weakling would have to die, the voices commanded it._

* * *

He sat in the bathroom naked, his hair wet, holding his bear that was more skeleton than rotten flesh, staring into those frightened eyes coldly. They gazed back at him through the fog that clouded over the cold surface, moved when his moved. The impostor even had the nerve to hold his bear just like he did, tightening when his muscles contracted and loosening as he did. How dare he? This _Mattie_ was mocking him at his own expense. Mathieu lifted the M-93, the same one he used on Germany those few months ago.

"_Have him kill himself. He should kill himself."_

Mathieu had a brilliant idea. Since this Mattie copied everything he did all he had to do was trick him into shooting himself. He grinned as the voices urged him on even more. His hand wasn't shaking; he was stronger than that weakling staring back at him. He smirked wickedly, leaning forward to whisper to the one standing in his way. His finger was pressed teasingly against the trigger, this was finally it. Suddenly his foot slipped on the wet tile, his eyes widened as he fell off to the right, the side that held the gun. As a reflex reaction, he squeezed the trigger. The last thing he saw was red. '_What a lovely colour,'_ he thought distantly before everything went black.

* * *

_The whole world saw him on the other side._


End file.
